My Hero
by Watson is a hedgehog
Summary: John gets flashbacks of Sherlock's death. Memories of him flood his mind. Warning: suicide. Please rate and review!


**A/N: Hello! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I know everything in here isn't precisely detailed, but don't mind it. Enjoy! **

**John's POV:**

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me, please, will you do this for me? This phone call, it's-it's my note. It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"_

"_Leave a note when?"_

"_Goodbye, John."_

Sherlock's body was lying in a pool of deep wine- red blood. His dark, wavy hair was soaked with the substance, matted to his forehead. His eyes appeared wide open. The icy blue-gray orbs seemed to gaze off into space with the black pupils dilated. The iris's itself look like a colorless sky and the pupils looked like the dark night, dull and wan without the stars of life illuminating the endless thoughts of bitter sarcasm and sharp thoughts nobody could think of beside him.

His cheeks were hollow, cheekbones defined and profound. His skin was pale, making each and every vein, artery and capillary visible to anybody. But everybody knew that the blood that was once tumbling through those veins just a few minutes ago was still and powerless to spark a beat.

"_I invented Moriarty."_

"_I'm a fake."_

" _. . . in fact, tell anybody who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_

"_It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

Glimpses of his body plummeting towards the cemented sidewalk flash in my mind; his arms and legs flailing, his hands reaching out as if trying to break his fall. He hoped to grab something, anything, to stop himself from having the oxygen being knocked out of his lungs and for his soul to drift away from his broken and crumpled body.

But he knew in that clever mind of his that nothing would prevent Death from feasting on his perspicacious and sagacious brain and cold heart once he stepped off the ledge and into the cold air, which sank its teeth into his skin like venomous snakes.

"_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."_

His mind worked like no other. Nobody, except for him, is canny. His mind would calculate logical thoughts, mathematical procedures beaming in front of his eyes, which skimmed the air in front of him. The air that he looked at looked normal to anybody else, just oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and ozone molecules floating in the space. But what he saw in front of him was like no other; his eyes rushing over the words and numbers. Words spilling from his mouth, frantic and short, like the staccato quarter notes plucked and strummed from his violin. His eyes would cloud completely gray, the thoughts fogging his mind and dragging him away from the real world; dragging him from the world of stupid, ignorant people who would never think like Sherlock. Away from this dark and cold world, just like his heart.

These crimes were his escape into a three dimensional world where his adroit thoughts had the simplicity equivalent to how quickly a 7 year old could do 8 times 8. He would never allow useless, trash-like thoughts take up space in his mind.

"_Oh hell, what does it matter?! So we go round the sun- if we went round the moon or…round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference."_

I chuckled at his words.

His voice. His voice was strong, dark, and deep, as if laced with dark, black espresso, growling from his pale-skin-covered throat. The words were enunciated, each and every letter crisp like that favorite purple shirt of his that looked like silk when he wore it because it stretched across that body of his. Every idea tumbled from his lips and swirled into the air in arrays of smoke. His svelte, lithe, soft pink lips parting slightly whether he was speaking to numerous people or mumbling to himself. His throat would vibrate as his voice erupted from his vocal chords and spewed into the air. His Adams apple would bob as he swallowed deeply, contemplating a thought. An ingenious thought that rolled around in his brain, hitting itself repeatedly against his thick skull, yet never losing its meaning.

Hope when you take that jump, you don't fear the fall.

Hope when the water rises, you build a wall.

Hope when the crowd screams out, they're screaming your name.

Hope that if everybody runs, you choose to stay.

Hope that you fall in love and it hurts so bad.

The only way you can know is to give it all you have.

Hope when the moments come, you'll say, "I did it all."

_You did do it all, Sherlock,_ I thought.

You are my hero.


End file.
